The Light of Conception

 —Poetry by Joshua C. Frank

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

ELEGY FOR THE CHILD NEVER CONCEIVED

His would-be parents had but days;
The procreative ship sat docked,
And with the passengers’ delays,
That ship is gone, forever locked,
But if, instead, he’d been conceived
And been allowed to live and die,
His soul could one day be received
In the embrace of God Most High.

And hence it grieves my heart to see
A child-shaped space unoccupied,
Not running in the grass with glee,
Nor leaning on his mother’s side,
And no one in his space in bed
To kiss goodnight while tucking in;
No smiling face, no heart well-fed,
No warm caress from hands to skin.

When weighed against one human soul,
No sacrifice too great to give
Could ever be for such a goal
That one’s own child may simply live.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

 

 

 

 

LET THERE BE LIGHT

A friend put forward that I write
Of light that flashes at conception,
Of fireworks when genes unite
In the woman’s body, out of sight,

And God decrees, “Let there be light!”
And greets His child with great reception,
And the zygote’s surface flashes white
In space that’s darker far than night.

My friend turned out not to be right,
Fell victim to a science deception.
Yet still, God sets each soul alight
And in all His children takes delight.


(First published in New English Review)

 

 

 

 Octopus Mom with Eggs 

 

A WOMAN’S RIGHT

Come hear of little Eli Hart—
His father fought the “family court,”
Misnamed misandrists lacking heart.
His mind-sick mother got support
From “child welfare” workers, who,
Despite his father’s wishes
To raise his son himself, just threw
The boy to mother vicious.

And when she learned her ex’s goal,
She went to Walmart for a gun,
The one to “blow the biggest hole”
To end the life of her own son.
Although it shows these evil times,
It’s blown out of proportion,
Because a child-murder crime’s
No different from abortion.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

 

 

 

 Newborn Crocadile

 


A LEFTIST REBUKES HAMAS

A satirical poem against the left’s appalling response to Hamas beheading babies in Israel.  This poem won Honorable Mention in the 2023 Society of Classical Poets International Competition.

Hey, Hamas, you silly dolts,
You need to mow down more adults.
Keep fighting for your patch of sand,
Since Jews do not deserve the land,
But chopping off their babies’ heads
And slashing children in their beds?
You really need to be more subtle;
To succeed, you must befuddle.
Convince the unborn babies’ mothers
That nothing counts more than their ’druthers
And children are a dungeon chain
Forcing women’s toil and pain.
Convince them that it’s not alive
Until you see its face arrive
And anyone who disagrees
Hates women and ignores their pleas
(The usual apologetics).
Delegate the death to medics
Who live by an assassin’s dictum:
Kill when none can see the victim!

By pro-choice tactics, you may choose
A better way to kill the Jews,
But should you choose the final solution
Applied to France’s Revolution,
We still will stand up for your side
While your land is occupied.
Behead in public or abort—
The right to either, we’ll support.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

 

 

 

IN A HOME

Based on Michael Bunker’s grandmother (b. 1909) as described in his book, Surviving Off Off-Grid

I

Old, blind, and helpless, Grandma’s all alone—
Bed, radio, phone, and nothing stimulating,
Indifferent care-crew members—
Unwanted, worn-out human unit, waiting
To be no more than carvings on a stone,
Like all that she remembers.

Her rural girlhood mostly was the same
As that of Cain and Abel’s unsung sister
And girls throughout the ages:
A large, extended family to assist her
In growing food and cooking over flame—
The meals were thus their wages.

Her farm work done, she played out in the hills
With family dogs and lambs and half-grown
neighbors,
Her sisters and her brothers,
And in her teenage years, thanks to her labors,
She married young with now-forgotten skills
To be six children’s mother.

Her parents both had been allowed to die
At home, fed wood-cooked meals, with kin
surrounded,
And prayers read by their pastor.
My mother calls her poor, but wealth abounded,
All traded for a snake-oil salesman’s lie
That soon became her master.

II

The media said to buy consumer goods,
Electric labor-savers from the city,
And be assimilated,
Or Grandma’d be an object of their pity:
A third-world widow living in the woods,
Still undomesticated.

She had to pay the corporations back
As an electric-power-and-plumbing renter;
She sold her home for schooling
To be a nurse in some big birthing center,
Where now she’s just a name upon a plaque
Right near where vents do cooling.

Her children couldn’t care for her old age
Once on the hamster-wheel of debt and earnings,
And so they pay some strangers
To keep her, full of home- and family-yearnings,
Locked up just like a sparrow in a cage,
Away from age’s dangers.

When family-hunger hounds her like a ghost,
She calls her past in area codes scattered
Across this once-free nation.
She calls old comfort from when family mattered
To chatter, be in better times engrossed—
Times smashed by modernization.

You may recall, she’s blind, can’t see the phone,
And so she speed-dials one of us at random
And prays that one will answer.
Convenience and consumer greed in tandem
Ensure that once we’re old, we’re all alone—
Modernity’s a cancer.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

My biggest problem with modernity may lie in the growing separation of the ethical and the legal.
 
―Nassim Nicholas Taleb, The Bed of Procrustes: Philosophical and Practical Aphorisms

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joshua Frank for today’s fine poetry, and to Joe Nolan for the photos of mothering for our Seed of the Week

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Lara Gularte will hold an
Ekphrastic workshop at
Switchboard Gallery in
Placerville today, 5:30pm.
(Be sure to sign up.)
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 



 

 



The Happenstance of Abstract Design

 Once Upon A Time
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

APEX
—Joyce Odam

Sur-
real as
life—the
long climb
up some ima-
ginary mountain,
thin air that hinders
your breathing as the
land recedes, a tiny map
of greens and browns, toy-
sized houses and cows…the
minute children as they watch
you—Surreal as that, your harsh
breath burning your throat—your
muscles rebelling, then memorizing
their function—And your hands, your
awful, aching hands, with their cuts and
numbness, how you rely on them, marvel
at them, and the arms to which they attach,
hugging the mountain—holding it close and
loving its dear, steep body, with its footholds
and notches—while upwards the beautiful white
summit birds soar over and you can see the detail
in their sky-filling wings and match the fathomless
darkness of their eyes—as they scream down at you.

 

 

 

Pastel

I THOUGHT I WAS PAINTING
—Robin Gale Odam

I thought it was a brush.
I dipped the tip of the bristles
into just one color, bled it across
the page—I wanted lines but
there were none, just the page
with its width, and its length
for the color to run down—

to run down, no lines for words,
for the spelling of all the colors
of the palette, from the plastic
childhood tray of squares and
all the squares one color,
a kind of grey, or taupe—

the one color for the story,
for the plot, for the interlude—
for the comedy or the tragedy,
for the rise or the lift, or the
fall from summer, from spring, or
from winter—the square of black
for winter tested against all the
winters—the intervals of division—

the tip of a brush dipped
into the square of black and then
mixed into every other square to
to keep its spelling, or find the
perfect word collected
from the square of
black or grey,
or taupe.

____________________

THIS ABSTRACT PAINTING
—Joyce Odam

various tones of beige
rich browns
a field of near-white
in suspended swirl

a frozen leap of line
in vague direction
balanced right side up
and holding
like an important act
of intention

the eye understands
what the mind
tries to know

art is art
framed for itself
to adorn some wall
deciphering nothing
but the happenstance of
accidental design
and deliberate choice of color

abstract proof
of anything asked
that requires no answer


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/28/15) 

 

 

 

 Whisper

INSOMNIA XXV
—Robin Gale Odam

Whisper of shadow in the dark,
the quiet death of indifference—

I shall retrace my steps, find
what poured out into the dream.

Wing-flutter outside the window,
book of sorrow, origami sparrow.

I shall light my candle—hush of
memory, flick of light, the quick
of night.
               

(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2017,
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/29/22)

_____________________

MAKING THE BED
—Joyce Odam
    
A woman is making the bed in the sunny room,
picking up slivers of glass from the broken win-
dow. They dazzle her fingertips until they bleed.
She holds a wad of tissue in her hand.

She is weeping. Her tears are cutting her cheeks.
The sheets are white with red rosebuds on them.
The diamond of her ring makes angry slashing
motions in the light.

She is fascinated by this ritual. She feels as if
she lives in the center of all the world’s mirrors,
performing for them. She is going to stay here until
the bed is smooth and safe again, even if nighttime

comes, even if time tears itself into little pieces.
This is a thing she must do. Every time she thinks
she has it all, another piece of glass flicks her atten-
tion to it. They are getting smaller now.

She licks her finger and touches it to the glass.
The sunlight is warm in the room. She doesn’t
know why she cannot stop weeping.

It all happened too long ago to keep
remembering it now.
Why does it take so long to do?
Is the window through breaking?

 

 

 

 Something There

VICTIM
—Joyce Odam

She pulled in your direction; didn’t she,
grabbed at your shadow, though you hunched
away, alley-like, and promised her nothing;

still she followed you, didn’t she, lit your eyes,
pretended anything if you would claim her,
poor thing, less than  

a statistic to you now, though she said you
could love her, and she would love you back
forever.  And she did.

 

 

 

 Within The Night

VARIOUS
—Joyce Odam
 
Various I cry unto you, oh great deliberate river,
oh stone,
oh rain;  oh various, I cry unto the zero of love;
I cry unto my

smooth darkness; oh various. Various I am torn—
oh see, oh feel.
I am torn bloodless, seamless, raveling free, oh
various in the

stroke of leaves, in the flutter of earth wing—
envious.
Various as the light, or that shadow, or the shadow
on that dark,

or as the dark on that dream, I am various.  I shift
and shift
under the false love of mirrors that open and pour
out;

various with regret, with sorrow, with joy; various
with envy—
that spark, that slow destruction—oh various with
all that—

with slow and swift continuance—with flow of
language—
those words—those speakings—those listenings,

and enter the hum and stay there, fill up the room
with your life,
oh various.

____________________


VESTIGE
—Joyce Odam

I picked up the lamp and it was empty,
wishes scattered all over the ground,
and no Genie.

The lamp was dented and dull,
tossed away as worthless, and I had
no desire to ask for magic again.

I heard a harsh laugh in the distance
and watched a sinuate figure
vanish like smoke in the air.

What do I care? I muttered,
and kicked
the useless lamp back into the gutter.

 

 

 

Again The Meaning

WORD-FOREST
—Joyce Odam

what is written down the trees
flares
in last sunlight
blurs words
into messages
for
no readers
but
the
trees
that stand
in revelation
and awe
to be
so holy
the
trees
so innocent of this
to feel the light
read
and
revise
and bring
new comprehensions,
the eternal sunlight
flowing down the trees
and into the ground
there are such languages

 

 

 

 Transcendental

YOU—IN TRANSITION
—Joyce Odam

I feel you floating out upon the universe—
your arm creating a new horizon, your body
translating into something sacrificed—

yet you sing with your impossible
silent voice—all the way to the next
syllable of confusion which you do not honor.

Your shadow upon the mountain of this transition
is heavier than your eloquence—you almost appear,
you almost return to your own meaning—

when will you leap into sorrow as rain—
as great earthquakes mentioned in newspapers—
as winds that damage everything with their furor—?
                                                               
                                                          
(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/5/14)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RAPTURE
—Robin Gale Odam

My heart soared into the clouds—the wind
had layered them above the setting sun
and then had become motionless.
I prayed as the last day passed.
I am still here—not remembered, not taken.
The sky is clear today.
                               

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/11)

____________________

Many thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for today’s lovely post, as we wend our way through this sunny/rainy/sunny/rainy Spring!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Mothering”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Cameron Park Library
Poets and Writers Workshop meets
today in Cameron Park, 5:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

“…a frozen leap of line…”

 

What In Tarnation~?

 March of the Living, Auschwitz, 2014

—Public Domain Photo

* * *

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Claire J. Baker, Sayani Mukherjee,
Joe Nolan, and Nolcha Fox
—Illustration by Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan

* * *

Michael Brownstein has sent us two poems in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day (Yom HaShoah), which started last night and runs until sundown today:

 

 

THE GIFT OF A SAVED TORAH
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

The Torah was smuggled out of Warsaw
by a NAZI officer who hated what Germany had
become—
it made it by foot and car to France and plane to
England
and somehow to America where it landed in the
Midwest.
When the officer's act was discovered,
he was executed on the spot and the
Warsaw Ghetto
found itself barbwired in, great walls went up,
and all deliveries were blocked. The people
were left to starvation and neglect.
Many sickened, many died.

The sun came out.

People began to live again, growing herbs for
medicine,
boxed gardens on rooftops and window sills,
a vast array of vegetables, edible flowers,
blossoms, nuts, seeds and a great many fruits.
What was once weeds became veggies—
dandelions turned into greens and flour.
Though milk became a luxury, calcium came from
pigeons,
chickens and rabbits and the sun graced everyone
with large does of Vitamin D. Life grew better,
the Torah safe, and the people began to fight back
everyday thanking God for helping everyone thrive.

* * *

UNITED, WE FOUGHT BACK
—Michael H. Brownstein

There were Africans too
gypsies, and gay men.
Mental facilities emptied,
the trains heavy with Jews,
children, women, mothers,
men who were strong
and held the weak up.

The dogs were cruel too,
and sunlight was dark gravy,
everything lacking light,
insight, a coherency.
In the ghetto, enough
and enough became strength,
the people took back their lives.

The terror of incredible evil
was not sustainable
and now, today, next week,
a month from now
it will still be unsustainable.
Together, Jews, Africans others
fought their way into sanity.

This was the last time--
there will never be another
--and today we unite,
make the world a better place,
safer, more coherent,
more understanding.
Nazis could not destroy our love.

 

 

 

Our Seed of the Week was "Yolks"~

 —Public Domain Photo

BATTLE READY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Full readied troops for battle call,
the soldiers circled—on, their plate—
all uniform, old crusty led,
awaiting choice for mission charged.

Now centred, focus of intent,
beheaded, sliced by bayonet,
attended by apostle shine,
at orange-red rise, yellow dawn.

This foreign field where oxen yoked,
and jokes from whites about surrounds,
their daily tiffin, tea and cake—
or scrambled eggs, quail, duck, swan poached.

Descendants warred ’mongst smashing shells,
the crack or crash of tap or bash;
two sides entrenched, their foxholes dug,
no chicken run for those afraid,

But free-range minefields in their sight,
as bad-egg sulfide, armaments;
an aerial, in optic stance,
of brown-rimmed, white-wide, pupil, gilt.

Those hard-boiled troopers brought to tears
by recall, childhood memories,
their nanny, nursery, rhyme lines,
those toast dip soldiers, runny yolk. 

 

 

 

—Artwork by Lily Prigioniero
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

TREADLE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(prompted by “…In Time”
by Stephen Kingsnorth in
Medusa’s Kitchen, May 2, 2024)

several decades ago when I was
growing up, my Mom would use
a Singer treadle sewing machine
to repair our clothes

every so often the drive belt would
break and have to be replaced; this
was ages before Online ordering, and
to make matters even more complicated,
the drive belt was fashioned from leather

today there would be cries of outrage
taboo!! leather comes from animals!
fortunately, Singer was making these
machines with the leather belts well
over 100 years before PETA was
founded, so we were spared the cries
of outrage for a good, long time

I inherited Mom’s Singer treadle machine
and it sits today in a corner of one room
in my house, with a few things stacked up
on top of it, waiting patiently for the
household to once again have a person
who knows how to sew, to put it to use 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

JUST IN CASE
—Caschwa

we’ve seen the signs all over
wherever we’ve put fire hoses
or extinguishers

“In case of fire, break glass”

and now we can add another
message on the refrigerator door

“In case of hunger, break eggs”

both of these scenarios presuppose
that one knows what to do with the
fire hose, extinguisher, or the yolk,
once its container is broken

there is more than one way to put
out a fire or to cook an egg, so we
let experience be our guide, and
lacking that, we free-float in the
Black Hole of space wondering
what in tarnation are we going to do?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan 

 

A NOVEL THAT DOESN’T END
—Caschwa

had all kinds of great ideas
to write a mystery novel
that ends in a great, big
gun fight

but we won’t ever know the
ending, because I’m sure
not going to hang around
writing a book if there is
a great big gunfight! 

 

 

 

 Pandora
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan

EPIPHANY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Ah, sun held lightly
within a half shell, hello.

I sense you offer an epiphany.
this time I am ready,

here by California’s ocean—
you, balanced, tilted, splashed,

skinny dipping on horizon.
Now, nudged open by waves, you

spread, as if God’s own egg yolk,
into a deepening orange glory

lovers are drawn to follow, flow
into wherever epiphanies go. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

A TREE COMMUNION
—Claire J. Baker

                        In ethereal moments,
a poet singled out a talisman leaf
in a small barren space
of
her windowed eucalyptus tree—
                                        high clearing: one leaf.

Each day, leaning far back
in her old La-Z-Boy and gazing up,
the poet found her leafy talisman was sending
fresh ideas. She memorized its pointed
shape, tilt, size, the few twigs
                              bordering the now sanctified 

                   tree space.   

       
The tantalizing leaf clung,
storm-slashed, wind-whipped
rain-drenched,
sun-warmed into pungency
with the entire tree.

                                        A year later
                                        the goodluck charm had
                                        fallen,
                                           the magical clearing
                                               exuding:
                                            Lover of trees
    now commune with air. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Artwork

SANG
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The bonnet of eye-masked crowds
The seraphimed joy of knowledge ends
Dust particles on the shore
I masked as a bird of joy
The flowers of beaded darkness
Till the cancerous ocean fell high
A last brimmed-full cup
In Xanadu they sang and ate the heaven's cup
In wilderness comes a divine spree
For the joy of beaded pearl
I overrun a trained footprint
Till the last supper of mahogany sprouts.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan 

AT PUBLIC SCHOOL
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
“It’s O.K., Eddie,
If you want to be queer.
It’s O.K.
If you want to be weird,   
Cut off your dick
And pluck out your beard.”
Said the Life-Coach Counselor
At the pubic school
Who had her nose
In everyone’s pants and
Walked down the hallways
Longing for
A sideways glance.

“It’s O.K.
No one will care.
You can go through life
As a non-binaire
And sort through
Your nightmares
Each mourning.”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

A THEORY OF NEGLIGENCE
—Joe Nolan

To explain a complaint,
A theory of negligence
Had to be offered.

To offer it up,
Concrete was cracked
And the world
Was pulled down.

In front of
Swirling clouds
Of concrete-dust,
Crowds were running,
Hoping they
Would not be entombed
Like the figures
Preserved at Pompeii.

It happened very suddenl—
Something exploded
And the world was
Covered—
Figures frozen in time.

It was all included
In a theory of negligence—
All it took
Was an airliner with jet fuel
To crash into a tower
And start office fires
To bring the whole thing down. 

 

 

 

—Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

 

Today’s LittleNip:

I THOUGHT YOU SAID A YOLK
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Is this a joke? This yolk
has wings, a beak.
It’s covered with
some fluffy stuff.
It honks, a tiny truck.
No yolk I ever fried
could do a trick
like that.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors for fine poetry and visuals based on our Seed of the Week, Yolks, and to Michael Brownstein for his poems in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
A Poetry Month Decompression
All Open Mic tonight, 7:30pm.
For more about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Teaspoon Of Time

 —Poetry by Craig Kirchner, Jacksonville, FL
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

CANON

Official sacred books, ecclesiastical law,
a member of an order, or a fundamental rule.

Dancers required to move in sequence,
a single theme performed at different times.

A formally codified set of criteria deemed
mandatory,
for a particular artistic style of figurative art.

The eight-head standard used to depict the human
body
realizes that it is an equivocal way to split ankles
from knees.

The mystery of it, the epiphany, tracing origins
back to Popes and despots, rule-setters of posterity.

It’s the moment, a teaspoon of time, never quite
uttered that way before, accepted as holy scripture,

bound to outlast its relevance, become cultural
cliché,
talking points of those in need of a Lord. 

 

 

 

 

RECLUSE

   God changes his appearance every second.
    Blessed is the man who can recognize him,
       in all his disguises.
            

           ―Nikos Kazantzakis,  Zorba the Greek

The only memory is alone.
Others pass under the window,
hats, tops of heads,
like wandering waves
against black asphalt.
They come but mostly go,
and never stop.

The skyline seems surreal,
could and should be removed.
The shops across the lane
are doused by traumaed traffic lights
that bounce on bedroom walls,
on pillowcases choked,
soaked blind.

The furniture, homesick zombies,
decaying like hung meat,
lacquered with bile-smeared sweat,
a satin gray.
The mirror stares back in disgust,
at skin shriveled sugar-brown,
cancered with matted hair,
drawn close as dying clover.

Insomnia chooses, with relish,
not to sleep, it preoccupies, is human.
Forgetting how to tell it,
nothing is true.
Time drifts like dark tides
and only the collecting filth
is dependable.

The room shrinks.  
The dust is moved by melting walls,
like thick parched rust
in driving rain,
exiting sediment seeking rest,
breaths released, never missed,
soul-sought fervor never found.

 

 

 

 

WEDNESDAY

Named curiously after Odin,
but ignoring the strong “d”—
often makes an overcast entrance,
putting a pall on morale.

Always the day after voting
and the day before thanks,
aligned precisely in the middle,
as though, the star of the show.

The first fourth day of that initial week
saw the creation of sun and moon;
being children of the same,
these icons remain steadfastly full of woe.

Celebrated with ashes on the forehead,
acknowledging that, dust you are
and that to dust you shall return,
and that you know for sure it is Lent.

To Mickey M. and alumni
it’s ‘anything can happen day’,
except of course Tuesday can’t repeat itself,
and it is too early to Thank God it’s here.

Posters in the office
see it somewhat unscrupulously,
as hump-day, making memes of
camels, bison, and Bill Clinton.

Thinking of Bill, and closing the briefcase,
wondering how many toasts to mid-week
have been tinkled while scribbling a to-do list for
Thursday on a small square cocktail napkin.

 

 

 

BUSTING CLOUDS

Cloudless sky at midnight,
it quickly becomes clear that the stars,
in their brilliant pervasiveness,
are as close as we can conceive,
to continuum …. infinity.

The epiphany, an out-of-body
experience, places us in space and time,
beyond the universe of me
in a selfless way that floats
above ego and id.

Robin Williams lying naked in
the grass in Central Park,
busting clouds and imagining
the many solar systems,
both above the heavens, and below the earth.

Imagine if the brightness,
and blue of the glare of the sun,
allowed the radiance of the stars
to become a constant part of days,
as well as the muse of the night.

Perhaps self-centered would antiquate—
sunning naked, afternoon siestas,
would become the norm,
like sleeping with no pajamas,
like the vaporizing of arrogance.

   
(prev. pub. in Poetry Quarterly, Summer, 2021)

 

 

 

 

ADVANCE MAN

I want to be there,
hovering, heady, buoyant,
every time you unpack a bag.
I will be matching every move,
anticipating turns and missteps.

With levity, cool breezes,
fluffed pillows with mints,
glycerined waters, friendly mirrors.
I will be replenishing the voids
of any unfulfilled needs.

I want to taste the salt of ocean views.
I want to fold the chutes,
shade the sun, chill the wines—
when possible,
with bubbles lighter than air.

 

 

 

 

THE GAME

As soon as I told her,
I play a game with myself,
I knew what she was thinking,
and then she said it,
“Everyone does it.”

No not that. I lie here holding you,
with my eyes closed,
and I focus on the right lid,
looking at the back of my right eye with both eyes.

With the proper focus the screen forms shapes,
when one becomes familiar,
you zero in on it,
it becomes more defined.

Sometimes it changes size to achieve better clarity.
It’s like a mirror of your sub-conscious,
that your conscious thinks it controls,
… but not really.

I had one play where the screen became
a detailed wood carving.
I know nothing about carpentry or furniture,
so go figure.

“That’s an interesting game,
why am I feeling like the thimble,
or the shoe?”

I thought you’d like it.
When I’m lying here with you, and play,
I see images of you in all sorts of positions.

When I get to your favorite,
is when I realize that you need to close your eyes,
look to the right and learn how to play.

 

 

 

 

THE WALKER
                                             
She was 5’2”, maybe 100 pounds.
I started taking note a year ago,
dark hair to her shoulders,
ruddy sun-browned face and hands.
Dressed in neutral tans, greys—
shirt, slacks that looked well-worn,
more part of the persona than the outfit.

She would be walking near the boardwalk,
but just as often five miles inland on the Boulevard.
Away from the beach no one walks, except the
homeless,
certainly not for miles, and never in the summer sun.
Power-walker outings are a small part of the day.
They dress for the workout, careful to hydrate.
This was not exercise, this seemed her lifework.

She may have been homeless, but no belongings,
her gait seemed determined but not rushed.
I envisioned her legs to be hard as steel,
her ventures seemed perpetual.
I spotted her daily.

As it became ritual to be on the lookout,
the frequent occurrences increased.
She walked all the time—for a living,
or on a mission.
A mystic trek, perhaps her monastery burned down—
if stopped, or accosted, perhaps martial arts.

Taoism emphasizes action without intention,
simplicity, spontaneity.
The walker was for me the embodiment of this
discipline,
achieving perfection,
becoming one with the unplanned rhythms of
the all.

The myth grew with each sighting.
I did not approach her or attempt to engage,
I didn’t want the intrigue to end.  
I was reminded of the monk’s story—
the man kept running faster and faster,
to escape his shadow, until he died.
All he needed to do was step into the shade.
     
_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

YOUR WATCH
—Craig Kirchner

It’s not the empty, inner face,
or idle, motionless hands
that threaten, throttle, stall,
that stop me gazing, as they do,
at our morning un-brushed version,
but the tiny ticking, ticking, ticking ….

meters the pulse, defines the space,
preoccupies a priori,
any schedule I might have had,
of endless capriciousness,
fascination, of waking you,
turning you over, Deja-vu,
videos of tireless,
timeless licking, ticking, ticking

_____________________

Newcomer Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus, he was recently published in Decadent Review, Wild Violet, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Valiant Scribe and several dozen other journals. Welcome to the Kitchen, Craig, and don’t be a stranger!
 
_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Craig and Dieadra Kirchner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 Just step into the shade…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Year Of The Dragon

 —Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

YEAR OF THE DRAGON

in the marathon
of zodiac animals, a rat
leaps across an ox, a tiger
and a rabbit and turns into
a powerful dragon

why is the world
still trapped in the dark
rathole of time and turmoil
like an old and mouldy
piece of rag


*2024 is Year of the Dragon in the Chinese zodiac calendar, whose twelve-year cycle starts with Year of the Rat. 

 

 

 

 

‘CHINA MODE’

My phone will be on ‘China mode’ next week,
which means
Facebook, Instagram, X, WhatsApp will be out of
reach.
Google, Gmail and Youtube can only be accessed
via a VPN,
WeChat becomes the most powerful tool in the
world, functioning
as a phone, messenger, wallet, bus and train ticket,
shopping platform.
Life has never been so convenient, and yet also so
precarious.
        I’d better think twice before I post anything
        online.

I will be on ‘China mode’ next week, constantly
on the way
from one place to another, with no time for delay.
Every night a feast with friends or family, nostalgic
about the past but unsentimental about the present.
Put to bed by alcohol and waking up feeling surreal. 

I’ll be missing our garden—the roses must be in full
bloom,
        the cherries must be ripe, and you must be
        thinking of me. 

 

 

 

HUMMINGBIRD

The opposite of a tinfoil
is a microwave oven.
A lesson the ten-year-old me
learned when I did my first
cooking, which is a big
word to use for the chicken
chow-mein Mum left me
in the fridge.

The door was shut.
Time was set.
A hummingbird
appeared on the translucent
glass plate, bathed
in a warm, orange light,
gleefully singing, dancing—

Boom!
The grinding halt of the oven.
A flash of white light.
A column of smoke.
Flickering frames.

Silence and darkness returned.
I stared at the oven, petrified
as if having just witnessed
a volcanic eruption.

The hummingbird was gone.

The opposite of Mum and Dad
was the lukewarm chicken chow-mein
wrapped in a tinfoil, standing still
in a damaged microwave oven.
The flying away of a hummingbird. 

 

 

 

 

TOMORROW

The sun will hide behind clouds and the dark clouds
will hang low in the sky.

Birch leaves will sigh in the wind and daffodils will
drop their heads.

Birds will stop whistling; bees will hide in their
hives,
and butterflies will lose interest in spring.

Clock hands will freeze, stations concourse will be
empty, and trains will decide to hibernate.

Road signs will disappear, guiding arrows will fade,
and traffic lights will shut their eyes.

Aunt Zhang will be visiting, bringing her loud
laughter, sharp tongue, and a perpetual curiosity

        about whether I’ve got a girlfriend, when I’ll
        be married, and what she can do to help. 

 

 

 

 

ET

I’ve always known I’m an ET, an extra-terrestrial
landing from another planet,
making my home on the earth.   

At home, Dad said, ‘man up’, taking me to football
to see how men run around only to chase a ball,
teaching me how to be tough and rough.  

At kindergarten, children laughed at me,
imitating how I walked from behind, or in front.
‘Queer’, they chanted, ‘where is your tutu?’  

At school, fellow pupils kept away from me,
asking why I didn’t like maths or science,  
instead taking an interest in words and verses.  

At university, I went to a counsellor,
asking why I was different from others
and why I was attracted to boys instead of girls.

When I first came to this country, I was seen
as a foreigner, not being able to speak English
properly,
not knowing how to use a knife and fork.  

‘Where are you from, and where do you really
come from?’
‘How long are you staying, and when are you
leaving?’  
Friendly words from strangers, with no intention
to hurt.

When the pandemic started, people stayed away
from me,
throwing swear and stares. ‘China virus’, a guy
shouted on the street,
‘Go back to your own country.’

When I had the opportunity to visit China,
I was a foreigner there, struggling to fit in with
my rusty Mandarin
and ideas considered too foreign and western.

Perhaps I am an ET after all, an abandoned child
from another planet, coming to the earth as a loner,
making home here as an alien, a refugee,
an immigrant.  

 

 

 

LIFE

As a teenager, I wrote
dozens of poems about life.
Everything—parents’ divorce,
grandparents’ deaths, failed exams,
first-love heartaches—
invariably turned into fine
opportunities to muse on life.  

I shut myself indoors, listening to
Beethoven’s No. 5, anticipating
mysterious knocks on the door,
showering my diary
with Young Werther’s sorrows, composing
farewell letters but lacking
courage to send them out.
Each separation, every reunion,
felt as big as life, as heavy as death.  
I thought I knew what life is.

Decades later, no matter how much
I pull my grey hair, grind my decaying teeth,
I can’t write a word about life.
Each effort is a self-defeating exercise.
Every claim appears precarious, superficial,
superfluous.
All emotional ups and downs,
familiar pages in a dogeared diary.
All high and low tides,
accompanied by unpredictable undercurrents.

Truth is, I don’t know what life is.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.

—Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Hongwei Bao back this morning, with thanks for these poems exploring his Chinese heritage.

 

 

 

Hongwei Bao

 

A reminder that there will be
a workshop in Lodi this morning
with Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair;
and, this afternoon, Josh Fernandez
will read from his new book at
Avid Reader in Sacramento, 2pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake in his Dragon Suit~